


Neither A Show-er Nor a Grower

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Friends to Lovers, It's for a case John!, John Watson has a micropenis, M/M, No Johnaconda here, Oral Sex, Still a sexy beast, love confession Johnlock style, poor Greg, what timing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John Watson has a certain swagger--a certain glint in his eye. When Sherlock needs to experience anal sex 'for a case' he knows just who to turn to. Even though some lovers have looked askance at John's small dick, Sherlock knows it takes more than equipment to be a great lover.
Relationships: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock
Comments: 18
Kudos: 100
Collections: SmallDickFics





	Neither A Show-er Nor a Grower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts), [janto321 (FaceofMer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/gifts).



> I blame this on the internets. Iwantthatcoat and Merinda incited me with their fic.

“This is unexpected,” John finally managed, as Sherlock regarded him brightly from his chair. They were seated across from one another, much as they usually were, but this evening there was a major difference. Notably, Sherlock had just proposed something earth-shattering. “So, to recap--you want me to show you how to have sex? For a case?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said agreeably, increasing John’s simmering suspicion. 

He had metaphorically knocked John’s feet out from under him with his bald announcement that he needed to experience anal sex to solve a case and his further pronouncement that John was the obvious candidate. John nearly looked around in case there was a film crew lurking, ready to capture his gullible capitulation. Because obviously, if there was a chance of having sex with Sherlock, John Watson was going to take it. He’d been half in love and fully in lust with the younger man since that first dinner at Angelo’s. 

“Alright,” John affirmed, standing. He held out a hand, pulling Sherlock to his feet. He didn’t miss the quickly hidden look of disbelief on Sherlock’s face, followed by excitement, badly disguised as clinical interest. “You’ll be more comfortable in your room, but I have supplies in mine.”    
  


“We-we’re starting right now?” Sherlock seemed surprised, but not alarmed.

“Only if you want to wait,” John assured him, gentling his tone, just in case Sherlock was worried. It was hard to tell--he still, after all these years, had no idea just what kind of experience Sherlock had. 

“No!” Sherlock’s eagerness made him flush faintly, and he jerked his chin up, “This case depends on it. Besides, I’m not nervous or anything, John.”

“‘Course you aren’t,” John said dryly. He put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and felt a warm surge of anticipation at the shiver that moved through Sherlock. Good, he was looking forward to this too. “Go take a warm shower and I’ll meet you in your room.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said, moving away. He stumbled to a halt when John caught his arm and swung him back gently to face him. “John?”

“Here now,” John chided gently, smiling with intent up into Sherlock’s eyes. He cupped his jaw in one palm, brushed his thumb lightly over Sherlock’s incredible lower lip, savouring the faint quiver. “That’s no way to start.” He stepped closer, bringing their bodies flush, and drew Sherlock’s head down to his. “Think it’s about time I tasted you.”

Sherlock groaned his name, but it was more sound than word, and was swallowed by John’s lips. Their mouths met hungrily, and the suspicion John had held for four years was confirmed; the chemistry between them was incendiary. Heat flushing his body, John felt a stirring in his groin. He smoothed a hand softly down Sherlock’s chest and stepped back, giving him a heavy-lidded smile. 

Upstairs he collected condoms, anal lube and wipes, tucked them into the pocket of his robe, and hung it on the hook behind the door to the tiny shower room he rarely used, preferring the larger bath downstairs. Taking a quick, hot shower, John had to resist stroking himself once or twice. Desire and anticipation bubbled inside him, and his thoughts kept returning to Sherlock and just how much experience he did or did not have. John was an experienced lover--both with women and with men--and he was determined to make tonight amazing. Not only for Sherlock’s sake but for his own. Just in case this was a one-time deal, as seemed likely. More than once Sherlock had involved himself in niche research for a case and then promptly abandoned it.

  
  


Toweling off, John ran a thoughtful hand over his jaw. He’d shaved that morning and was a bit bristly, but he decided to leave it. Smiling to himself, he thought how much he’d like to leave a little evidence behind of their night. Even if it faded, to leave his mark, however briefly, on Sherlock, filled him with a brutish pride. He did run a little product through his damp hair and touch his skin lightly with cologne. Donning the robe, John padded down the stairs, calling out to his flat mate.

“In here John,” Sherlock responded from his bedroom. Steam roiled from the open door of the loo, and the scent of Sherlock’s expensive soap made blood rush to John’s groin. 

John didn’t linger in the doorway to Sherlock’s room, but entered, closing the door behind him. “Change your mind?”

Color rode Sherlock’s cheekbones and his eyes were glittering, but if he was filled with nerves, they were apparently the good kind. He’d stripped the duvet and sheet back, and was nude except for the towel draped around his hips. “Not at all. You?” His pale skin was pink from the heat of the water, and although he’d not washed his hair, steam had made his curls spring out in a hundred different directions. He looked both younger and older. He looked like a fallen angel. Like a courtesan lounging in bed, prepared to slay a man’s heart, destroy his pride and make away with the last of his good sense.

“Hardly likely,” John scoffed, grinning at him. His smile widened when Sherlock returned it, and for a moment they shared that giddy sense of adventure they always did when they were about to embark on something foolhardy. “I’m going to take off my robe.”

“I may not have ever had a penis up my bum, John,” Sherlock sniped, “but you don’t need to announce your every move as if I’m going to flee into the night like a Victorian maiden on her wedding night.”

He burst out laughing, “Fine. Just trying to be considerate, you git. I dunno how much experience you have, do I?”

“I’ve been with two women,” Sherlock announced, and John fought down an instant and absurd jealousy. “I did a fair amount of ‘fooling around’ with other boys when I was at school, but nothing since.”

“Right,” John said, shedding his robe. Were the two women Janine and Irene Adler? Was there some way he could ask? Shit. No. He stood for a moment, watching as Sherlock’s eyes scanned him keenly, knowing that even in this situation the other man would be unable to help himself in deducing everything about John now that he’d seen all of him. He was calm despite his rising desire; John was at ease in his middle-aged body. The slight softening around his middle, the gray hairs beginning to appear on his chest, the size of his dick. He’d had his fair share of lovers do a poor job of hiding dismay when they caught sight of him, although none of them had complained when he was done. Sherlock didn’t seem all that interested in it, in typically atypical Sherlock behaviour. “Tit for tat.”

“Hmm?”

“Your turn.” John strolled toward the bed, smiling at Sherlock. “I’ve shown you mine,” he breathed, planting one knee on the bed and leaning over, forcing Sherlock to lean back on his elbows. He brushed his nose lightly over Sherlock’s, breath teasing at his lips. “Time to show me yours…”

As they consumed one another’s mouths hungrily, John trailed firm hands tantalizingly down Sherlock’s body, gasping into his mouth when Sherlock bit lightly into his lower lip, and brushed firm fingers over John’s sensitive nipples. “Oh that’s promising,” John murmured, and Sherlock laughed. John grinned and tugged at the towel, “lift your arse, sweetheart.”

Sherlock complied, and John pulled the towel away, leaving Sherlock equally naked. Unlike John, who was neither a show-er nor a grower, Sherlock’s half-turgid cock lay long and enticing along his thigh. John smiled into his eyes, brushing Sherlock’s curls back, “Will you lie back? I’d like to join you.”

Complying, Sherlock pulled at John, bringing him down to lie between his legs, and they both moaned at the full-body contact. He was frankly delighted that Sherlock wasn’t being shy or hesitant. Not that there would have been anything wrong with that, but Sherlock’s obvious enthusiasm was not only stoking the fires of his own desire, but it made any lingering doubts he had as to the advisability of this vanish. Let worry wait for tomorrow. For tonight he was in Sherlock’s bed, with Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth and Sherlock’s fingers digging urgently into John’s hips, urging him to rock against him.

John broke away with a gasp, half laughing, half groaning. “You want this to last any time at all and you’ll slow down.”

“I don’t want to.” The detective spoke with a pout, and it was fucking adorable.

“Neither do I,” John admitted, smiling fondly at him. He had to stomp on the urge to offer his heart, future and meagre bank account in exchange for this night to never end. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s cheek and jaw, blazing a trail down that long throat to suck gently at his magnificent collarbone. “But if I’m going to make this good for you then we need to slow down just a bit.” He smirked, “I’m the expert here, mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed, and he smirked back, “Yes, John.”

“Hold on a tick--let me get my phone. I’d like to record you saying that for posterity.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock locked one leg behind John’s calves and heaved, rolling them so John was beneath him. He grinned cockily, “There. Lest you get a feeling of superiority.”

John’s smile was slow and sensual, and the effect on Sherlock was visible. “Oh sweetheart, but I am superior.” He kissed him, slow and deep and thoroughly, and pulled back to brush the roughness of his jaw along Sherlock’s smooth cheek. Smirking at the shiver it induced, he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “You’ll never forget tonight.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Several sleepless and blissful hours later, Sherlock was more sure of it than ever. Beside him John slept peacefully, on his stomach, pillow-creased face sporting a slight smile, hair a wreck, one possessive hand on Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock himself found the idea of sleep impossible. He’d rather lie and watch John sleep, watch his eyelids flutter with dreams, feel his fingers occasionally curl against Sherlock’s skin then relax. Sherlock’s own smile hadn’t left his face all night. He rolled carefully onto his side, letting John’s hand ride his body until it had come to rest on his side, just below his waist. He studied John’s face, relaxed and carefree, the blunt lashes hiding the fine lines, the mouth soft. Sherlock brought a gentle finger up and let it ride the faint depression in the middle of John’s lower lip, remembered biting that lip, remembered John’s hungry gasp.

He remembered everything. Every moment. Every kiss and caress and the way John’s eyes had watched him so carefully, so tenderly, to make sure he was ready when he was done preparing him with gentle, teasing finesse…

_ Sherlock was unable to keep the gasp from flying from his lips as John’s cock slid inside him. Against his will his eyes closed, bliss soaking through him. They flew open again, not willing to miss a single expression that flitted across John’s face.  _

_ “Feel good, sweetheart?” John asked, the dark blue of his eyes brilliant as he smiled at Sherlock. He kept Sherlock’s legs held in place easily, as he stayed still, letting Sherlock become accustomed to the fullness. It was the fifth time that night that he’d called Sherlock ‘sweetheart’ and each one pierced Sherlock’s heart with a bittersweet arrow of longing. If only he really were John’s sweetheart. Shelving his sorrow and concentrating on the here and now, Sherlock nodded, “I’m good, John.” _

_ Moving slowly at first, John let him adjust, and when he felt the relaxing of Sherlock’s muscles, saw his cock filling again, he moved with more intent, letting go of one of his legs so he could curl a masterful hand around Sherlock’s straining erection. An earthy groan shook Sherlock’s chest, and he strained his hips upward, chasing the sensation. _

_ John settled into a rhythm, fucking Sherlock with the kind of loving fierceness with which he’d always done everything with him. His hand was merciless, bringing Sherlock again and again to the brink of coming, only to soften and slow, letting him recover. When Sherlock was ready to yell at him, John suddenly let his hand fly over Sherlock’s length, moving urgently between his legs. The pressure and the pleasure building, Sherlock did yell, shouting the ceiling down as he came with a fierce, white-hot flash. John pulled out gently and stripped off the condom. Sherlock, lips numb, blinking, watched John’s hand fly over his own length until he curled forward, grunting. A few drops escaped, falling to the bedsheets, and Sherlock, brain still realigning, resolved not to let them be washed for a few days. He wanted to keep John Watson in his bed for as long as possible... _

After, John hadn’t made some awkward joke or become angry and left, or done any of the things Sherlock had half feared. Instead he had laid down on his back, raised one arm invitingly, and smiled at him. “Give us a cuddle?”

“Gladly,” Sherlock had said hoarsely, unable to help but slide into the circle of John’s arms and lie nestled with him. The cooling sweat on their skin, the tackiness of drying ejaculate, the sheer intimacy of it all should have sent him running. Instead he reveled in it, lying with one cheek to John’s chest, so that his best friend couldn’t see the wistful longing on his face. John’s hand had caressed Sherlock’s arm, warmly petted his back as their heartbeats slowed and they settled.

Eventually John’s stroking hand had slowed, then fallen still, and his happy sighs had become the deep breaths of a man completely relaxed and asleep. Only then had Sherlock moved, shifting so that he could watch John as he slept.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Two days. Two days of Sherlock avoiding him. Either by leaving the flat before John had woken, and returning only after he had fallen asleep in his chair, then sneaking past without waking to lock himself in his room, or simply disappearing into his Mind Palace and stubbornly refusing to emerge.

John, like anyone, had had a few encounters who ghosted him after one night. But not usually ones who woke him the morning after with tentative, loving lips wrapped around his morning wood, their amazing, one-of-a-kind eyes fixed intently on John’s face. Not ones who had sucked him until he was a sweaty mess and had come down their throat. Not ones who gathered him close and held him until he rolled them on their back and reciprocated. Not ones who clutched at his hair and begged him not to stop, and called him _ love _ in a hoarse, wrecked voice as they came.

Typical Sherlock, not to be like anyone else.

Finally John had enough. He dressed for work, slung his bag over his shoulder, slammed out of the flat and called a goodbye to Mrs Hudson as he left. Sherlock was once again lurking in his room. John was sure he came out only when he was certain John was on the Tube. Well not today. John cut across to the road which ran parallel to Baker Street and doubled back.

Sherlock, wrapped in his dressing gown, curls on end, had emerged from the solitude of his room and was standing in the kitchen, staring blearily at the kettle as if willing it to boil, when John climbed silently in the tiny window at the end of the hallway by Sherlock’s bedroom. He dropped his bag with a deliberate thud and smiled grimly when Sherlock stiffened. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Forget something, John?”   
  
“Yeah, apparently I missed the part where us having sex meant you were going to dodge me for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock paused, then turned, face smoothed to blandness. “I’ve been busy, John.” He managed a semi-believable eyebrow arch, “Why would I avoid you?”

John strolled closer, slow and deliberate, “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. Gave it a lot of thought.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, John,” Sherlock smirked with a shadow of his old sass.

“Dick,” John sighed fondly. “Wanna know what conclusion I came to?”   
  
“I’m waiting with bated breath,” Sherlock said snidely, but his tense shoulders gave him away.

“You’re feeling self-conscious.”

Sherlock studied him, as if searching for hidden meaning.

“See, I’ve had my dick up  _ your  _ arse,” John said conversationally, stopping with the toes of his shoes just touching Sherlock’s bare feet, “But you’ve not had the pleasure...nor have I.”

Sherlock looked startled--and confused. “Pardon?”

John leaned in, hands sliding to Sherlock’s waist. He was pleased and relieved when Sherlock swayed toward him. He let his breath ghost over Sherlock’s lips, brushed his nose teasingly over Sherlock’s, “I’d like you to fuck me, Sherlock.”

“John?” His voice rose, squeaking ever so slightly.

John didn’t smile. He kissed him, waiting for that eager, hungry,  _ wanting  _ reciprocation, and he wasn’t disappointed. They fell into the kiss, hands roving, lips locked. “Take me to bed, Sherlock,” he growled low, “spread me with your fingers and slide your dick inside me and make me yours the way you’re mine. Then you won’t ever want to avoid me again.”

Sherlock shuddered, hands fisting in John’s jumper, _ “Christ,  _ John.”

“Is that a yes?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes beginning to gleam with excitement, “Oh it is very much a yes, John.” He slapped John on the arse, “and then,” he said, even as John registered the sound of the flat door opening, “I’d like you to kneel over me and wank until you come on my face.”

“Fucking hell,” John heard Lestrade’s appalled voice exclaim, but he was too busy dragging his new lover to the bedroom to give two shits.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're more a fan of Johnaconda, check out one of my early fics, The John Watson Fan Club (part one in a perfectly ridiculous, cracky series about John's 10 inch dong).


End file.
